Phantom Pain
by wtfel
Summary: Because you can rectify any wrongdoing with a resurrection, if you try hard enough.


Sylvanas Windrunner doesn't do her own reanimations.

Scant patience and over-inflated sense of self-importance aside, she simply isn't meant for such work.

She was raised as a weapon, not a forge—so spoke Arthas Menethil as he severed her soul from her lifeless corpse. And he never hesitated to remind her—an effortless task, just a flick of his finger and his slick voice was slipping into her skull—

 _You might be a double-edged sword, I think._ He'd always shaped his words so they sounded like a smirk. _Fear not, little elf, those are my favorite kind. I don't know that I've ever seen such a beautiful blade in all my years. Pray tell, my queen, have you?_

She always stared at Frostmourne, lest she suffer, eyes dull with pain that was...anything but.

She was the blade. He was the fire that melted her down to nothing, molded her into a weapon of his will. And the vaunted Frostmourne served as his tools; his hammer, his anvil, his whetstone, all in one—it struck away imperfections with ruthless efficiency.

Arthas Menethil has since met a more permanent end, but his Banshee Queen remains—still a blade, now without a sheath.

She's got a legion of dutiful undead who'd draw blood for the honor of serving her and a score of white-winged val'kyr who whisper life back into bodies by the hundred. So if she'll never be a forge, that's fine with her; this marks the difference between herself and the Lich King.

This, and the wracking pain that seeps into her spirit every time she tries to stitch a soul back to its body, she'll wager. But she's not looking for second opinions.

So Sylvanas Windrunner doesn't do reanimations.

But she's even worse at delegating, when the whim strikes her to get all worked up about something.

Which is how she finds herself flat on the floor of her chambers, shards of an expired soul phylactery scattered about the stones beneath her and a chilling cry caught in her throat.

 _You always loved mirrors, yes?_ There'd been no point in veiling her vanity the way she'd done amongst the living; the Lich King flipped through her memories like a casual read, amusing himself with anecdotes from the days when she drew breath. _Rejoice, my queen, you're a mirror of my very own design. Let our enemies see their wretched reflections, show them their suffering. They think their pain gives them strength—they think_ agony _their_ armor. _Hah! You know better, my dear._

During her tenure as Banshee Queen, Sylvanas had come to quite the curious conclusion: pain is like a fingerprint, one-of-a-kind. Each person's torment tastes different, screams its own melody, hurts with its own uniquely horrible signature.

Alleria Windrunner's soul sings in the key of darkness, and it cuts sharper than any banshee's cry.

But it's worth it, or so says Sylvanas to herself as she shakes against the slick stones of the floor. It's worth every whimper.

Because when Alleria Windrunner twitches to life, she's smiling.

So Sylvanas smothers the scream in her sleeve, sitting up to greet her sister with something of a triumphant smirk. "I saved you," she says, her voice soft but no less sharp. "So we're even now. Almost."

Now gaunt and gray—the hallmarks of undeath—Alleria is every bit as beautiful as she'd been when she was breathing, and that smile of hers (a rare sight, from the eldest sister) makes Sylvanas' chest swell the way no breath ever could.

But Alleria's breaths are broken and ragged, whistling through the tiny splits in seams of her tight-lipped smile.

"Be still." Sylvanas' words are far from soothing, but she pulls herself up to her sister's side, untangling Alleria's fingers from the sheets so she can trace the bones with her own. "I've taken care of everything."

Alleria Windrunner's eyes—still blue, just a little more luminous—flutter shut, and slowly, over the course of six seconds, her breathing stops.

"You'll adjust," Sylvanas assures her. And then, with a sudden stroke of sympathy, "How are you feeling?"

Alleria sits up, stiff and straight—always the soldier—and stares at the sheets strewn about her, still starched as the day they were sold.

(They've never been used, of course—in fact, the whole room is decorated with useless, frivolous furniture, from the shelves stacked with books on the far wall to the wine rack and all its ancient spirits. And so it doubles as a torture chamber.)

For a moment, it seems as though Alleria's half-lidded gaze has stumbled on the striking similarity—the tapestries, the rugs, the banner hanging over a window that led to nothing, all reminiscent of Windrunner Spire, down to the finest detail, even the thread-count of the sheets. But then she's clutching at her clothes, pulling at the cuff of her pants, yanking at her ankle like it's some sort of parasite.

" _Alleria_ ," she scolds her, swatting her hands away before she can do any harm to the stitching. "Be reasonable."

Alleria's good sense must've perished in the fires, along with the better half of both legs, which have since been replaced by newer, decidedly fresher appendages. Sylvanas spent six hours trying to sew the damned things on straight, but her effort showed, or she thinks so, leastways.

Alleria disagrees with a good deal of flailing.

"You'll _adjust_ ," Sylvanas insists. The words are markedly sharper, this time—the difference is that between flint and steel. "Up. Come on, Allie. Try them out."

Her sister makes a sound like a whimper when she's hauled upright, faltering as she finds her footing on unfamiliar feet. But Sylvanas steadies her with a hand on each shoulder and leads her to the center of the floor.

Something like a smirk plays on the younger sister's lips, and it might've even looked sweet in the right light, if a tad warped—she's trying to resurrect habits that died decades ago, but there're just so many pieces, broken and scattered pieces—

"That's it," she tells her. "I'm going to let go now—"

When Sylvanas steps back, Alleria stands still, fearful gaze flickering across the room. Its comforting features are lost on her; her stare stays fixed on the chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling—eight candles arranged in a wreath of flame overhead.

She doesn't give voice to her dread, because she's Alleria, but Sylvanas sees it all the same.

"You ought to avoid any...reminders of your death," she says quietly—coldly. "I should've—I should've gotten rid of that, I guess—I just...you never liked the dark…"

Sylvanas had done away with the dagger that took her sister's life—putting her out of her misery had done nothing to spare her own—but she didn't think to have the lights uninstalled. A fool's mistake.

" _I'm sorry,_ " she says hastily. But she means it. She owes her sister more than one, but she prefers to keep her apologies limited to twice year. "Allie—I…"

Alleria remains unmoved, staring straight up, transfixed by the fixture.

"The first time I died, I thought of you." One might mistake it for tenderness, the way Sylvanas holds her sister's face in her hands, bringing Alleria's forehead to rest against hers. "Did you know? I'd thought you long-dead, I thought that blasted blade in my belly would be our reunion, I thought you'd greet me—you'd be there with Lirath on your shoulders and Mother somewhere in the background, being busy, how she always was—"

Alleria's shoulders are shuddering, shaking, slouched under the weight of silent sobs.

"Y-You—you're—" Sylvanas stutters, thoroughly stumped. "That's awfully unnecessary." Two fingers reach to lift her sister's chin before she can even catch herself, and she can't help but laugh—but that's warped too. "Don't mean to sound like Mother."

And as she grows still, Alleria's still smiling.

"That's it," Sylvanas tells her. "It's all going to be fine. You've got my word."

She smooths back bangs colored like sunshine, just without the shine, and mirrors Alleria's smile as best she can—she can be a mirror for other things, she thinks.

...well, there's a first time for everything.

"Bet you can still match me shot for shot, even," Sylvanas suggests, but it's more like a dare. "Care to prove me right?"

Alleria's smile is all the answer she needs.

"Stay put," says Sylvanas, backing toward the door. "I'll be right back with a bow—"

She keeps them down the hall, behind three padlocks, each with a different key. Most of the weaponry hanging from her walls has little practical value, but she's always been sentimental; Alleria used to say it was how she made up for being so fucking frigid.

But she passes them all without a thought—save Lirath's old training bow, which is broken at the crest and always hangs crooked, in need of adjustment—and heads for the back wall.

She returns with no less than six longbows—three in each arm—and a quiver slung over her shoulder, bristling at the brim with arrows of authentic quel'dorei make. "I didn't know if you'd want a longbow or a— _Alleria_ —"

The eldest Windrunner is confined within a ring of broken bottleglass when her sister finds her, and she's dripping red from head to toe—a well-aged red, if the scent suggests anything. Sylvanas' prized eight-hundred year old wine is pooling at her sister's feet, following the cracks in the stonework as it spreads.

Most rangers would have more respect for an antique alcohol such as this. But Alleria's smiling like it's some sort of joke. And before her sister can scold her, she reaches for the chandelier dangling above her head.

" _Alleria—"_

It shatters on the stonework, spilling flames across the floor—they caught the vapors before the candles even hit the ground—burning through alcohol and Alleria alike.

The fire climbs her clothes like ivy, and still, Alleria smiles.

But it looks more like a rictus, in this light—the flickering flames spill ghastly shadows across the stone.

She doesn't make a sound; Sylvanas did a good job with the stitching, see, but she thinks she could've done better.

Perhaps she sewed a grimace instead of a grin.


End file.
